The Sanchez Problem
by Diranda
Summary: When Stanford Pines and Fiddleford McGucket encounter a new student at Mt. Backsmore (aka "BackUpsMore") University, they decide to take their lives in their hands and go seek out the newcomer, Richard Sanchez, at his hangout in the dives of the city... (This is a work in progress guys, I'm trying to do some research on the proper background for Ford and Fidds!)


Sanchez

(RickFord)

_ Richard Sanchez is certifiably a genius. What he's doing at a second, no, third rate college like 'BackUpsMore' is anyone's guess. I'd ask him, but he would never answer me. I just sit here, writing in my journal and I wonder._

** -Stanford Pines, journal B4, 1975.**

Stanford Filbrick Pines didn't watch much TV but his roommate did, so he ended up becoming somewhat enamored of the _Mary Tyler Moore_ show. His preference was really PBS, like _Meet The Press_, _The Robert MacNeil Report (75)_ and _Doctor Who_, although occasionally the enchanting sounds of daytime Educational Television could be heard coming from the dorm room's black and white.

The college, of course, was _really_ named Mount Backsmore University but everyone, even the professors, tended to call it by its nickname, 'BackUpsMore', since it ended up being the 'safety school' for many science students who were hoping for better scholarships. Places like West Coast Tech (Cal Tech) and East Coast Institute of Technology (MIT) in particular. It seemed that if you couldn't afford or manage a scholarship to the Premier Technical schools in the States, you ended up at 'BackUpsMore'.

Stanford's chance at a scholarship was ruined, which was why _he_ was here. His roomie Fiddleford was here because it was the best his family could afford, which was why Fidds was generally _thrilled_ to be there.

Ford wasn't so thrilled.

Backsmore had some very good professors, as Ford learned. Quickly, Ford felt bad for disparaging the university in his journal. Chastened, he set himself to working hard to show his professors that they weren't teaching him in vain. He was acting silly, Fidds was fond of saying as he wandered to bed, leaving Stanford studying furiously in the living room, the only other noise soft classical music drifting from Fiddleford's prized transistor radio.

So it was a genuine mystery when _Richard Sanchez_ showed up in Ford's astrophysics class one day.

Richard _Sanchez_, of all people!

He wasn't exactly _poor_, nor was he the victim of a jealous twin, so _why_ he'd ended up in Mount Backsmore tormented Ford.

Rick Sanchez was a certifiable _genius_. He was smarter than the professors. What's more, the professors _knew_ it.

It didn't help that everything about Rick was infuriatingly cute. It just made Ford angrier. He didn't have any right to be so intelligent, so dismissive, or so god-damned attractive. It was _distracting_. Ford had trouble focusing any time Rick was in class. The guy was an ass. A _certifiable_ jerk. All he did in class was drop into the seat closest to Stanford's and kick his motorcycle booted feet up on the nearest desk (usually Ford's) and fall asleep.

And _snore_.

What's more, Fiddleford's reaction to Sanchez echoed Ford's. Fidds had Sanchez in several of his classes as well and it was even more irritating to hear _him_ complain about the guy.

Both Ford and Fidds decided that Rick was probably targeting them in particular, since they were both new and he was an upper-classman.

A stupid, snarky, arrogant, smart-ass upper-classman who could do no wrong, who seemed to _own_ the school.

So, the young men decided to do something they'd never been able to do in High School: confront Rick Sanchez about his behavior.

The trick was figuring out _where_ Rick was after classes let out. Normally the two roomies would stay at the campus library until way after it closed, usually until the librarian went home for the night, then they'd drag themselves to the uni's 24-hour cafeteria to find some kind of coffee, even if it was barely drinkable. Once they'd exhausted what study time they could, they'd drag back to the dorm and argue with the annoyed house matron, until she sent them off to their room with another 'warning'. Miss Stanton never really punished Stanford and Fiddleford for coming in after curfew, however. She knew what kinds of grades the boys got. She knew what they were 'up to' so late.

Well, except for _tonight_.

Nervously, the two doctoral candidates made their way through the darker back streets of the 'bad part of town', staying close and clutching their coats tightly around them.

The two boys stood out like sore thumbs; Stanford in his beloved camel-colored duster and Fiddleford in his bright green paisley shirt and matching

cinnamon-brown corduroy blazer. As they approached the club they'd been told Rick was at, Ford felt a thick, heavy hand come down on his shoulder.

"Just where do you think yer goin', Poindexter?" a gruff voice growled.

"Oh lordy, oh my Lord," Fiddleford whispered, shuffling closer to his roommate. He began mumbling the Lord's Prayer under his breath.

Stanford gave a sightly annoyed sigh and snorted. "I think I'm going in this club, pal," he said in as strong of a voice as he could muster, "so kindly get out of my way."

The fella gave Ford a cold, calculating look, then grunted and pushed the door open before the two of them.

This guy was the bouncer, apparently. "Fine," he snarled, "but if ya get yer asses pounded in there, don't come cryin' to me."

"Holy smokes, Fordsy," Fiddleford whispered against Ford's shoulder, "wh-where'd you learn _that_?"

"Jersey," Ford muttered. "Look for Sanchez, Fidds, don't lose focus."

With the way Fiddleford was clinging to his arm, Ford was afraid these bruisers would notice and start giving them a hard time for _more_ than being college nerds. He shook his friend off his arm and snorted. He knew Fidds was giving him that hurt puppy look, but he didn't dare look over at him right now. Fiddleford was a sweet, insanely intelligent kid, but he wasn't very street-smart. He'd grown up in the highlands of the Appalachians, running around barefoot, reading books, eating apple stack cake and playing his silly old banjo. The thought brought an affectionate smile to his lips and he looked over at Fiddleford. "Hey, don't worry. I got this," he said softly.

A bright, innocent grin bloomed across the young man's face and Ford sighed a little. "We need to find Sanchez."

"_Yer a bitch an I hate you... but I can't leave ya alone... y'got my heart in a choke-hold..._"

Both boys went stock still and turned as one.

On the stage, dressed in little more than black leather and chains, clutching a fire-red electric guitar in one hand and the mic stand in the other was none other than Rick Sanchez, growling out the lyrics to the song with all the intensity that he lacked in class or anywhere else they'd seen him.

"Oh," Ford breathed, staring. "Th-there he is..."

He blinked, watching his classmate snarl and hiss into the microphone, then seize his guitar and wail out a solo that sent hot chills through Ford's entire body.

"Ford."

Stanford took a couple of steps towards the stage. He gulped and took another few, leaving Fiddleford behind rather quickly.

"Ford," Fidds repeated, following him. "Ford!"

"Hm?" Ford continued to watch Rick, gyrating and ripping sounds from that guitar that Ford had really never heard before. "Hey... Rick!"

Fiddleford grumbled, wincing slightly, trying to catch Stanford's arm. "Ford..."

Ford was smiling, despite himself, becoming enraptured with Rick's performance and music. He waved. "Rick!"

If Sanchez saw Ford and Fiddleford, he gave no indication. When the song finished, the band announced a break and Rick and the rest went backstage.

"We gotta go back there!" Ford said breathlessly, clutching at Fiddleford's arm. "C'mon!"

Frowning, an expression he would find himself using quite often with Stanford, Fiddleford clasped his friend's arm back and nodded. "Okay."

Ford hurried towards the backstage door, dragging Fidds with him.

"Rick?" he called, opening the door. "Rick? I-it's Stanford... P-Pines. And Fidds... er, Fiddleford McGucket..."

Fiddleford winced slightly, but he kept pace with Ford.

"Rick?"

"Pines?" a low voice growled. "McGucket?" That same voice snickered unpleasantly. "Can't go anywhere without the other, can ya?"

Ford paused, tensing. "Err... well, yeah," he said slowly, carefully. "Fidds is my best friend."

"Yeah, I know that. Come here, Pines."

Ford glanced at Fidds and ventured into the green room, a small, cluttered space for the band. Instruments as well as sofas and chairs and something that looked like an oversize portable fridge shoved in a corner created a kind of cramped, creative space. On the crappy orange sofa was Rick, sprawled across it like he owned the place. He had a bottle of something cold in a hand and a cigarette that Ford suspected wasn't tobacco in the other.

As they entered, a wide grin split Rick's face.

"Lookit you!" he crowed, raising his bottle to the two of them, "Being all brave and whatnot! Comin' out of the safety of the school to rub shoulders with the dregs! Hahaha!" He laughed and took a long, healthy swig off the brown bottle in his hand.


End file.
